Stalking Jack the Ripper (Stalking Jack the Ripper 1)

I slowly backed away from the mechanical flesh-covered arm, my attention steadily moving about the room, jumping from one horror to the next.

Whirl-churn. Whirl-churn.

Animals in specimen jars were in various states of decay, their flesh and soft tissues breaking apart in liquid hell. Crude abominations were left on tabletops throughout the room. Birds were ripped apart, placed in the mouths of dead cats, scenes of cruelty in nature displayed in sick tribute to the strong. It reminded me of a much darker version of Thomas’s personal laboratory. I stepped closer, unable to stop myself from getting a better look at the horrific creations.

On another shelf I spied a ginger beer bottle filled with a dark crimson liquid. I picked it up, turning it one way, then the other. It had dried and coagulated to a gel. Jack made reference to it in one of his letters. He hadn’t lied.

I exhaled, my breath puffing little white clouds in front of me. It was unbearably cold down here. I rubbed my hands over my arms, walking to a machine near the center of the room making the soft whirl-churn noise, and halted, nearly stumbling over my own feet when I saw the most sinister thing of all.

A human heart sat under a glass case, and soft noises came from a machine lending an electrical charge to it, causing it to continue pumping.

Pressing a hand to my mouth, I forced myself to stay calm and not gag or scream. Liquid-filled tubes ran out of the organ and over the table, toward something I couldn’t quite see without moving closer. I peered at the liquid being pushed through the heart with the transfusion apparatus; it was black as oil and stank of sulfur.

Whirl-churn. Whirl-churn.

I swallowed my revulsion. Father had truly lost his mind. Ghosts of his victims surrounded me, warning me to turn back, run away. Or maybe it was my own innate warning system, commanding me into that fight-or-flight state of being. But I couldn’t stop myself from inching around the table—any more than some of the slain prostitutes could resist their drink—too compelled to leave without seeing what the heart was pumping its strange life force into.

My breath came faster, speeding my pulse along with the added oxygen coursing through my system, making me both faint and jittery at once. I could hear myself screaming, No! Turn back! RUN! But couldn’t stop moving forward.

Whirl-churn. Whirl-churn.

A closed wooden crate, as long and wide as a coffin, lay on the floor, tubes disappearing into it like worms burrowing into the earth. I did not want to know what that box contained. I paused, feeling the sharp tug of self-preservation dragging me back.

But I cut it away, silencing it.

I mustn’t reach for the lid, but knew that was impossible. I was sick with dread, knowing, somehow just knowing, what I was about to uncover and being unable to walk away without seeing the truth. I watched as my hand shakily reached down, of its own volition, and lifted the creaky lid.

Inside the makeshift coffin lay my mother.

Her gray flesh—a patchwork of decayed skin with pieces of new—glistened with a sheen of unnatural sweat. The skin over her jaw had rotted away, giving her a permanent sneer. Beneath the grafted skin, something bubbled with artificial life.

Father wasn’t trying to complete a successful organ transplant. He was trying to bring Mother back from the dead—five years after.

All the fear I’d been containing shattered like glass. I screamed, letting go of the lid and backing away, bumping into the table. The soft whirl-churn of the machines grew louder. Or maybe I was about to pass out. I covered my eyes with my hands, trying to rid myself of the image burned there. It couldn’t be. He couldn’t have done such a thing.

No one, not even the most scientifically mad, would attempt something so ungodly. We’d been so wrong about Jack the Ripper’s motives. Even Thomas couldn’t have predicted such a thing.

I kept trying to drag myself away, prevent my gaze from lingering on the rotten face and decayed body. But I couldn’t move. It was as if the horror was so intense it had frozen me in place. Time didn’t seem to move. Life outside of this hell didn’t exist.

But the worst part was my emotions. I was disgusted, through and through, but part of me wanted to finish the work he’d started. I hated that piece of me, hated that I yearned for my mother back so much I’d condone this madness. Who was more a monster, my father or myself?

I was going to be ill. I turned, finally listening to my primal instincts, and ran for the stairs. As I rounded the steps, I slammed into a mass of flesh. Warm flesh.

It gripped me back hard and I screamed again. Only when I lifted my gaze did I breathe a sigh of relief.

“Oh, thank God,” I panted, clutching on for dear life. “It’s you.”

Human Hand Anatomized and Preserved, 19th century

TWENTY-EIGHT

JACK THE RIPPER

WADSWORTH RESIDENCE,

BELGRAVE SQUARE

9 NOVEMBER 1888